


A Year In The Life

by portraitofemmy



Series: measure in love [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cottage Fic, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Quentin Coldwater is a sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: They’d been drinking, and Eliot looked so, so beautiful in the firelight from the ever burning torches, skin kissed orange-gold and hair a wild halo. It would be easy to pretend it was an impulsive decision, some switch-flip moment. But it’s not.Eliot looked so, so beautiful, and Quentin wanted him. It was that simple.The first year of the Mosaic timeline.





	A Year In The Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Год жизни](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628455) by [fandom_The_Magicians_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_The_Magicians_2019/pseuds/fandom_The_Magicians_2019), [Yamanari_Tai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamanari_Tai/pseuds/Yamanari_Tai)



> Massive thank you to [saltandpepperbox](http://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/), who fell into this fandom with me and was kind enough to beta this fic. <3

They’d been drinking, and Eliot looked so, so beautiful in the firelight from the ever burning torches, skin kissed orange-gold and hair a wild halo. It would be easy to pretend it was an impulsive decision, some switch-flip moment. But it’s not.

Eliot looked so, so beautiful, and Quentin wanted him. It was that simple.

– 

The cottage was small, and musty, and definitely home to a couple animals who might or might not be sentient. Neither of them were particularly eager to go find out, either, not when the excitement of the quest still sung under their skin. They had a purpose, they had a goal, and they hadn’t had the chance to really spend time together in a long time. Every single breath, every single heartbeat was rich and resonant with magic in a way that was impossible to ignore. Quentin couldn’t stop being aware of it, after living so long without it. Anything felt possible. Everything felt possible.

And maybe they were young and foolish, but even with the numbers telling them just how herculean a task they were undertaking, they didn’t really believe they wouldn’t be able to solve the puzzle. 

Nothing in Fillory was ever supposed to be insurmountable. Even the Beast could be killed.

So that first night, they worked until the early hours of the morning, and fell asleep under the stars, too exhausted to worry about comfort or shelter. The second night too.

The third day they both woke up too stiff to move, which, yeah. Okay. Fair. Maybe the cottage was there for a reason. 

“Not much to look at, is it,” Eliot said dismally, as they surveyed the little building. Two rooms, a small one to serve as a sleeping area dressed only with a large stiff looking pallet mattress set on the floor, and a larger one to serve as well... everything else.

“No, it’s not,” Quentin agreed, and leaned into it when Eliot slung an arm around his shoulders. His back ached from three days spent hunched over, his neck ached from sleeping on his messenger bag, and the warmth and pressure of Eliot’s touch felt like a balm on grated nerves.

“I call left side,” Eliot muttered, and collapsed artfully down onto the pallet, long limbs sprawled out like a staggered fawn.

“Looks like you’re taking all of it,” Quentin bickered back, half heartedly, nudging Eliot’s foot so he could sit down and start pulling off his boots. This did little but earn him a lapful of Eliot’s feet and a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. With a huff and an eye roll, he tugged off Eliot’s shoes as well, letting them scatter on the floor next to his own. There wasn’t much to do, after that, besides crawl up to the right side of the bed, and succumb to exhaustion.

He woke up with one of Eliot’s arms slung over his chest, the only point of warmth in a room which had gotten surprisingly chilly overnight. 

“We need to get blankets,” he told Eliot, who’s only response was to swear with some delightful creativity and turn over, presumably to sleep more.

Quentin missed his warmth, absently.

_

It took about 3 months of work on the mosaic before Quentin’s broken brain started acting up again. 

There were definitely points in his life where three months without any serious depressive episodes would have been considered an accomplishment. Even accounting for Fillory’s constant low-grade level of air-opium and the sense of purpose having a quest always gave him, three months was a decent stretch of time before everything started to go grey.

But it did start to go grey.

It didn’t come out of nowhere. If he’d been more willing to acknowledge it, or if Eliot was more used to the symptoms of an approaching episode, they might have been able to head it off. Instead, frustration build to anger built to hopelessness built to listlessness. Purpose turned pointless, Quentin lashed out at Eliot first, and then the anger turned inwards. 

“You’re being a real cunt right now,” Eliot snapped at him, after the fourth sharply aimed sarcastic comment of the morning. And of course he was right. That’s the real sucker of the whole situation, is that Quentin could feel how irrational he was being and couldn’t reign it it. “I get that I’m the only person within range of your more grating personality traits right now, so I get the full-blast of it. But do you think you could tone it down, _just a little_. Your causticness is making it hard to be creative.”

“Sorry,” Quentin, replied, and he could hear how sarcastic and passive aggressive he sounded, even if he meant it as a genuine apology. _He’s only putting up with you because he can’t leave,_ supplied the nasty little voice in Quentin’s head. _How much of your miserable bullshit do you think he can take before even the quest isn’t enough to keep him here._

He spent the rest of the day passing Eliot tiles in silence.

He spent the next day curled up next to the ladder, knee drawn up to his chest, watching his best friend labor away and hating himself for not having the energy to help. 

The day after that, he didn’t get out of bed.

Neither of them are inclined to be early risers, but at one time in his life it was in Eliot’s bones to rise with the sun, and he was falling back into the habit the longer the spent working on the mosaic. Usually Quentin would stumble out of bed not long after and join him. Even with the addition of blankets and pillows traded for magical favors, their shitty pallet wasn’t very appealing with the left side empty. 

Today, his arms and legs and head and heart felt like lead. Today, nothing held any meaning. _You’re not going to be of any help to him,_ hissed that callus voice, which today sounded an awful lot like Niffin Alice. _Why would he want you there. No one wants you, Quentin. No one wants to put up with you._

He rolled over in the blankets, wrapping them up over his head. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could just will himself out of existence. It had never worked before, but there was a first time for everything. 

He might have actually fallen asleep again, or maybe just drifted lost in his mind, but by the time he was aware of his surroundings again the cottage was aglow with the orange of sunset and Eliot was sitting cross legged on the bed next to him. His face was serious, and one of his hands was resting warm and broad and gentle on the span of Quentin’s ribs. 

“Things are bad right now, right? In your head?” 

His voice was gentle and quiet in the silence of the room, uncharacteristically serious, and Quentin would have been embarrassed at how quickly the tears came if he had the energy left to feel anything but empty. He nodded, weakly, because it was all he could do, and then Eliot’s hand was in his hair, a warm familiar comfort that cracked through him to the core. He sobbed, helpless, waiting for Eliot to draw away. But he didn’t.

“You’re not alone,” Eliot whispered, a promise overlaid with memory, and slid his hand down to squeeze comfortingly at the back of Quentin’s neck. “I’m here with you, Q. I’m not going anywhere.”

In a story, in a Fillory book or some other epic tale, the tall-dark-and-handsome king’s magic touch would have been enough to break through the fog. But life wasn’t a story, Quentin knew that all too well. Life was messy, and it took work. But true to his word, Eliot didn’t go anywhere. He even put the mosaic on hold for a day, devoting it instead to coaxing Quentin into eating and bathing and spending some time outside. 

Which helped. It always did, though he was never able to make himself do it when things got this bad. But with a steady hand on his back and a shoulder he could lean on, he managed it. Eliot was there, steady in belief and easy with affection, arms open to Q at the slightest indication that touch might be welcome. Quentin was discovering he really liked being held. It was easier to ignore the voices telling him Eliot would be better off without him when Eliot was wrapped around him, solid and so, so warm, singing softly under his breath.

Eliot went back to work the next day, and Quentin followed him, but he allowed Eliot to convince him to be gentle with himself for once. There was a chair by the edge of the mosaic, and Quentin took up residence there, knees up to his chest and a new quilt wrapped around his shoulders, watching more than helping. Exhaustion crept up on him by mid afternoon, but when he crawled back into bed he settled on the left side.

It smelled like Eliot.

“You’re in my spot,” Eliot teased later, waking him up for dinner once the sun had set, and for the first time in days, Quentin smiled, just a little.

“You weren’t using it.”

–

The thing was, Quentin remembers sleeping with Eliot.

Sure there had been alcohol and magical emotion hangovers involved, but he’d never blacked out the experience of it. More like he’d just. Compartmentalized. Aggressively. 

But he remembered the feeling of Eliot’s solid chest against his, the fine fabric of Eliot’s shirt scraping against his bare nipples. He remembered the way it made something hot and excited pool in his gut to straddle Eliot’s lap and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. He remembered, oh did he remember Eliot’s hand on his neck, in his hair, turning his head just so.

He remembered the fear and elation in equal measure of taking Eliot’s cock in his mouth and thinking _oh god, he’ll never fit, I can’t take it_ and also _please let him, please let me give this to him. Please let him take me like this._ He remembered needing it.

It was increasingly hard to compartmentalize that memory when he literally slept next to Eliot every night. 

Despite what everyone seemed to believe upon meeting him, Quentin was not a virgin. Eliot wasn’t even the first guy he’d been with, if you counted sloppy party handjobs during undergrad, which he did. He’d had a handful of steady girlfriends, too, even if the most recent one had ended up exploding in front of him and then literally possessing him with her vengeful magical essence. 

What was new to him was... intimacy. 

He was learning things about Eliot that maybe no one had ever known before. Eliot, who hated the upbringing that gave him knowledge of growing things with a vitriol that spoke of deeper pain, got surprisingly attached to the plants in their little garden. He cared for them; and watching Eliot care for something, Q was quickly learning, was an addictive thing. Sometimes he’d pause his arrangement of tiles and covertly watch Eliot weeding, careful and gentle with the plants that yielded food to eat or trade. 

He knew that the first place Eliot would start to hurt after a long day of manual labor was his shoulders. He knew that pain would radiate down into his wrists, until Eliot was left swearing and shaking out his hands, sparks of magic flying from his fingertips.

Despite the facade he presented to the world, Eliot was smart, the kind of smart that only came from cultivation, and Q knew he was getting restless with nothing to occupy his mind but the endless, endless patterns.

So their little cottage started collecting books and, to Quentin’s surprise, he learned that Eliot liked being read to. It paired shockingly well with how much Quentin really fucking loved being held. They could settle onto the sitting bench by the fire in the main room of the cottage, Eliot’s arm around Quentin’s chest, Quentin’s back to his side, and pass the hours between sundown and sleep in whatever crazy Fillorian tale they’d managed to get ahold of.

He knew the sound of Eliot’s breathing at different stages of sleep. He knew the smell of Eliot’s skin after a day of hard labor. He was learning the different ways laughter and anger and determination could color Eliot’s deep rich voice.

Knowing, and being known, that was... new and terrifying. And surprisingly exciting.

It made it really difficult not to wake up in bed surrounded by the scent of Eliot, quilts still warm from his presence, and not remember the way it had felt to kiss him. 

In memory, Margo scares him most of the two of them, beautiful and powerful and terrifying. In memory, Eliot is a port in the storm, an anchor, solid and strong and sure. In memory, he’s unsure of how to divide his attention between them, until he realizes he doesn’t have to make that choice himself. They will put him where they want him. They do.

It’s a good memory, despite what followed it.

But Quentin’s not a virgin, and has been sexually active since college, and he just... misses sex. Kind of. Sometimes.

Sometimes he thinks maybe the _knowing_ and _being known_ is better, that 20 minutes of pleasure doesn’t compare to Eliot’s smile in the firelight, or the sound of his laughter, or the solid span of his hand at the nape of Q’s neck to shake him out of his head. What was a sloppy handjob at a party compared 8 months of having someone see your faults and choose to stay by your side anyway.

Occasionally it flits into his brain, what it might be like to have _both,_ but he squashes those thoughts down mercilessly. There was only so much any one person could reasonably be asked to give to someone else.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t wake up some mornings, comfortably wrapped in warmth with the smell of Eliot clinging him, and ache with want. 

Didn’t mean he didn’t sometimes give into to it, take himself in hand and revel in the memory. Eliot’s lips on his. Eliot’s skin on his. Eliot’s beautiful intimidating cock stretching his jaw until it ached. Eliot’s hand in his hair, guiding, gentle until it wasn’t, and _oh_ how he’d moaned for that. Eliot, noticing, tugging. Eliot, turned on by turning Q on. Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.

Yeah. Compartmentalizing was getting difficult.

–

The only time they really ventured far from the cottage, beyond going into the local village to trade, was an expedition to Chatwin’s Torrent. 

Eliot fell off the ladder. 

He’d maybe been drinking. Okay, he’d definitely been drinking. He drank less, the longer they were in Fillory-of-the-past. Quentin wasn’t sure how much of it was lack of supply causing a forced detox and how much was Eliot feeling less like he needed to run away from his day to day life. Quietly, in the place he kept thoughts he would never give voice too, Q hoped maybe it was some of the latter. That maybe being here, doing this quest, was good for Eliot in some real, immediate way, other than the hope of some possible return of magic.

But some days still came at Eliot really hard. Some patterns Q was starting to be able to predict, in the same ways Eliot was learning the signs of a drop in Quentin’s mood. Any time Eliot had to do any kind of serious farming, like planting or harvesting, he’d end up drinking heavily. Other times, the wrong phrase in their low-level bickering would seem to hit Eliot the wrong way, making him recoil and go silent. 

Quentin always felt terrible about that. Bickering came easy to them but they never meant harm with it, and affection always followed a barbed word. Frustration would boil over for one or the other, and then they’d hug it out. Eliot would tuck Quentin into his chest in that space he fit so nicely, arms strong and solid, holding the whole span of his shoulders. It was kind of insane how well they fit together, Q’s head on Eliot’s chest, Eliot’s cheek on his hair. It made him feel small and safe, contained. Sometimes it was worth bickering, to get the hug that came after.

It was never worth it when he misstepped, sending Eliot quiet and cold. 

Eliot retreated up the ladder, going back to directing tile placement, voice stilted and hard. If Quentin hadn’t been so buried in his own head, kicking himself for his thoughtlessness, then he might have noticed how much Eliot was drinking. But he didn’t, not until it was too late.

“Not there, goddammit motherfucker, _look where I’m pointing._ ” Eliot hissed, and Quentin turned to look at him just in time to see him overbalance. Arm extend, gesturing to a patch of green titles, he was leaning too far off the ladder, center of gravity all off. 

“El, be careful-” he started, but too late.

He saw Eliot start to fall. It was like it was happening in slow motion, he could see the trajectory in his mind and he was sitting too far away to get there in time. A handful of minor levitation spells flashed through his mind but nothing big enough, _physical kid my ass_ , before there was a sickly crunching sound and Eliot’s straggled yell of pain. 

_God, please no_ , screamed on refrain in his brain as Quentin scrambled up and over, _god, not him too, no, please._ But Eliot was breathing, moving a little, before Q even got over to him. There was no blood, his head seemed fine, but... his arm. There was more than one visible break, and the arm was hanging at a weird angle.

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin whispered, knew he sounded horrified and couldn’t help it. He reached out for Eliot on instinct, and Eliot leaned into him. “Jesus, El. Jesus fuck, okay. Is there– Other than your arm, is there anything else that hurts?”

“I don’t think so,” Eliot replied, and god, he was white as a sheet. “I can’t really tell.”

“Okay,” Quentin muttered, hands fluttering out in front of him, trying to conjure muscle memory of a tut for healing. It was like trying to hold water in open fingers. _Jesus_ , what was the point of magic if you couldn’t _help people_. “Know any spells for this?” he asked half heartedly, hand flying to Eliot’s back as he started to sit up. 

“I don’t know, I–” Eliot started, then stopped abruptly, freezing in place, looking down at his arm in horror. “I can’t move my fingers, Q.”

_Fuck._

So. Chatwin’s Torrent. 

How lucky they were in Fillory, with answers to these problems built right into the landscape. Learning from Penny’s mistakes, they pack a gift for the attendant of the torrent, and set off to fix this. It was a slow journey, Eliot’s arm strapped tight to his chest, the entire left side of his body bruised and aching. He was bitchy at first, but the longer they traveled the quieter he got, and that... that worried Quentin. 

They stopped for the night, eventually admitting they were not going to make the whole journey in a day, finding a soft clearing with a tree Eliot could lean against. The spell for creating a fire for warmth was familiar, at this point, and so were the wards to create a protective barrier around the clearing. Quentin did them on auto pilot, letting Eliot sit and rest, propped up against the tree. 

There was a moment of indecision, when he was done, if he should sit across the fire from Eliot or take his accustomed space at Eliot’s right side. Eliot’s head was tipped back against the tree, eyes closed. He still looked pale, even in the firelight. Guilt churned in the pit of Quentin’s stomach, and he settled for a compromise, sitting next to Eliot but with a few feet between them.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet but determined. Eliot’s eyes opened, head coming up to look at him, and Quentin swallowed, pressing on. “It’s my fault you fell.”

“Pretty sure it’s my fault,” Eliot replied dryly, head tipping back against the tree. “I was the idiot drinking on a ladder.”

 _I literally drove you to drink_. Quentin sighed, tugging his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Pretty sure you wouldn’t have been drinking on a ladder if I hadn’t said you’re useless for any problem you can’t fuck your way out of.”

Eliot snorted, sardonic, and that spike of guilt hits harder. “Hey, if the shoe fits...”

“It doesn’t, though.” Quentin insisted, scooting a little closer. “You’re a brilliant magician and you’re clever and–” _and you care about me. Do you know how few people in the world care about me?_ “I was being a dick and I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Eliot said on a sigh, eyes falling shut. “After this many days of constant exposure, I’m sure you’ve noticed a few cracks in the facade.”

“Even more reason not to poke them,” Q pointed out, gathering up enough bravery to tap his foot against Eliot’s leg. “I won’t do it again. Or I’ll try not to.”

“Sounds like a fair deal. Apology accepted,” Eliot agreed, and even his voice sounded tired. Then an eye cracked open to look at Q. “Why are you so far away? Get over here.” 

And maybe it was selfish, curling into Eliot’s side when Eliot was the one hurting. But Quentin had watched him fall, still saw it when he closed his eyes, and the steady rise and fall of Eliot’s chest under his head was a good counter for the fear in his heart. Wasn’t like Eliot seemed to mind.

They slept that night, wrapped in their quilt and each other. The rest of the journey to the Torrent took most of the next day, but they arrived about mid afternoon. Eliot needed Quentin’s help unwrapping the bindings on his arm, then with a laugh and a helpless hand gesture, the rest of his clothes. 

“Are you coming in, too?” Eliot asked, eyes sparkling with mischief, eyes Quentin was staring at dutifully to avoid looking at all the skin in front of him.

It was a tempting thought. For half his life he’d wished for Chatwin’s Torrent, to fix all the parts of him that were broken. _You’ll find your way back to sadness eventually. Nothing I can do can soothe your shade._

“Not this time.”

So Eliot went in broken and came out whole. He drank less after that.

–

Except for special occasions. Anniversaries counted as special occasions. 

“Happy Anniversary, Q. To our first and last year at this thing.”

They’d been drinking, and Eliot looked so, so beautiful in the firelight from their ever burning torches, skin kissed orange-gold and hair a wild halo. And Quentin wanted him. It was that simple.

Eliot tasted like carrot wine, the first brief moment their lips met, there and gone. Just that moment of contact, sweet and soft, gentle and kind, would have been a good celebration of the year. If Eliot had shaken his head, or drawn away, or done anything other than look sweetly startled and puzzled. That moment of connection, of _intimacy,_ would have been enough, to say wordlessly _I love you and I’m glad you’re here with me._

Eliot didn’t draw away. 

No, his right hand found Q’s on their quilt, stroking the skin tenderly, other hand coming up to slide around the back of Quentin’s neck. And _oh,_ that was as good as he remembered, so fucking lovely, the warmth of Eliot’s palm, the gentle tug pulling Q close for another warm, sweet, sucking kiss.

Eliot’s stubble prickled against his lips, and of all the minor details he’d fixated on, that was not one of them. How had he forgotten that, when it felt so _deliciously_ good, sparkles of excitement shooting up his spine.

They parted with a slick sound that made Quentin’s gut _clench_ with want, and the look on Eliot’s face wasn’t surprise anymore. It was naked desire, mixed with enough affection to make Quentin’s heart skip. “You’re so lovely,” Eliot murmured, voice dark and rich, thumb brushing gently against Q’s cheek. 

“ _Me?_ You are,” Quentin babbled, helpless, sitting up, sitting forward to chase the bow of Eliot’s lips. He overshot a little, getting more chin then lip, but even that... the rasp of stubble against his lips... was like fire under his skin.

“Eager,” Eliot teased, then Eliot’s hand was tightening on the back of his neck, and it was like Q’s spine melted at the pressure. “Mmmm, I remember that. You go all boneless when someone gets you by the neck.” 

Quentin wanted to _whine, Jesus almighty, fuck._ “Yeah,” he agreed, like that was something he knew about himself, like anyone other than Eliot ever just grabbed on and put him where they wanted him. Eliot, who was smirking again, pulling him up into another spine-melting kiss.

Fingers scratched into his hair, just a little at the base of his skull, and he shivered, full body, as Eliot’s other hand came up to tug gently at the tie holding his hair back. Then, his hair was free and Eliot’s fingers were in it, tugging gently and Quentin couldn’t _fucking breathe._

Eliot used his hold to tip Quentin’s head back, exposing his neck to sharp little bites, followed by soothing sucks, and fuck Q was getting hard from _necking._ “Eliot, please,” he panted once it was all he could do to hold himself up. 

Eliot pulled back, a satisfied smile and twinkling cat-got-the-cream look in his eyes. “Please, what?”

“Huh?” Quentin whispered, thoroughly distracted by how red Eliot’s mouth was, scratched by Q’s own scruff. If he just climbed in Eliot’s lap, he could taste that smile again.

“You said please. What are you asking for? What do you want?”

Looking at Eliot, shirt half undone and skin warm in the torchlight, Quentin knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to devour him. “I want your cock in my mouth. I want to make you come like that.”

Eliot looked startled again, a little punch drunk, like of all the things he thought Q might ask for, that hadn’t crossed his mind. Then that same sweet smile curled on his lips again, and he reached out, tenderly tucking a lock of loose hair behind Quentin’s ear, fingers stroking there. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

They took a moment to rearrange, Eliot sprawling out on their quilt, propped up on his elbows with his long, long legs spread just enough for Quentin to kneel between them. It was just long enough for the nerves to settle in, for Quentin’s hands to shake ever so slightly as he went for Eliot’s belt. Eliot, to his credit, noticed. His hand slid into Quentin’s hair, then down to the back of his neck, that firm, solid, _good good so good_ pressure tugging Q up to meet him for a kiss. And another. And another. Long enough for him to feel how hard Eliot was against his thigh. How much Eliot wanted him, too. 

Then Eliot was drawing back, that teasing sparkle in his eyes as they flicked from Q’s mouth down to his own crotch. “Get to work,” he instructed gently, giving Quentin's neck a gentle squeeze. Q shuddered a little, and did as he was told.

It really was as good as he remembered, that feeling of _so full too much,_ stretching his mouth until his jaw ached, sliding down until he couldn’t, anymore, until he had to pull off and cough. “Jesus, sweetheart, oh fuck,” Eliot mutter, free hand coming up to cup Q’s cheek, thumb brushing his lips. “You’re so, _so_ eager.”

And Q couldn’t help but laugh, a little, because the world was going effervescent and bright in Eliot’s hands. “Yeah,” he agreed, leaning down to nuzzle Eliot’s cock, licking it affectionately. There was no reason for shame here. 

“Good,” Eliot purred, arm falling back to his side to prop him up as his other hand tightened in Q’s hair. “I like you eager.”

Quentin moaned, and he couldn’t have said if it was from Eliot’s words or the hand in his hair or the hot thick stretch of dick sliding into his mouth. Any of it. All of it. He felt cracked open and exposed. He felt tender and vulnerable. He felt _safe._

There was no technique. The number of dicks he’d sucked in his life numbered exactly one. But he had Eliot to show him the way, correct his mistakes and praise his successes. Eliot, who was already going tense all over, hand tightening reflexively in Quentin’s hair.

“God, Q, that feels so good,” Eliot panted out, and Q _moaned,_ couldn’t help it. He wanted to make Eliot feel good. He wanted to be the person that made Eliot feel good. 

Eliot’s hand went tight, _tight_ in his hair, and then he was coming, hips stuttering a little into Quentin’s mouth. Q, who wasn’t quite prepared for that, choked a little and pulled off, coughing. It wasn’t the most graceful end to the experience, and he definitely had come on his chin, but that shiny bright feeling lingered, and he met Eliot’s eyes without shame. 

Eliot’s eyes, which were fixed hotly on the strand of come clinging to Q’s skin. He sat up, fingers skating Quentin’s cheek. “Come here,” he instructed, tugging a little until Quentin stumbled up into his lap, thighs spread wide to straddle him and oh there was a thought. Oh, Q liked this, spreading open over Eliot’s lap.

Eliot, who definitely wasn’t a psychic but was grinning at Quentin like he could read his mind, smirked. “I said come here,” he purred, then he was tugging Q in close, licking his chin clean and kissing him, the sharp taste of it shared between them. Quentin didn’t care. He shivered, pressing in closer to Eliot.

“You were so good for me,” Eliot whispered against his lips. “Will you let me take care of you now?”

“Yes, please,” Quentin said, begged really, and then Eliot’s beautiful, wonderful, broad hand was undoing his pants and tugging him out. Oh, Eliot’s hands, lovely, strong, clever magician’s hands, _oh_ how Quentin loved them, the one on his dick, the one on his neck... how dare Eliot have such perfect hands.

And such a perfect mouth, to kiss desperately and pant into once all the coordination was gone from his brain. Lovely perfect mouth which keep kissing him anyway, _oh please, don’t ever stop kissing me._

“El,” he choked out, clinging desperately to Eliot’s shoulders as pleasure crested in him, shivering apart in Eliot’s lap. Eliot stroked him through it, kissed him through it, held him close as he came. 

And held him close after. It took a moment for sense to return, but when it did, he became aware that they were hugging. That perfect hug, the one that fit so well, with Eliot’s arms around his shoulders, his head on Eliot’s chest. They fit so well together.

What other ways could they fit together?

He shivered a little, and Eliot chuckled, drawing back. He looked exceptionally pleased with himself, and came in for another kiss, easy. Q let him take it, happy to give.

“Hey,” he murmured as Eliot drew away.

“Hey,” Eliot replied, and Quentin could _hear_ his smile.

“Take me to bed?” Q asked, feeling brave, so brave held so safely in Eliot’s arms. 

“Okay,” came the reply, and another soft kiss. “Let’s go.”

–

“Let’s save our overthinking for the puzzle,” Eliot said, and Quentin agreed. 

He didn’t overthink anything. But he did kiss Eliot that night, and tug him into bed, catching Eliot’s hips between the spread of his thighs. He did kiss him again the next morning, wrapped in blankets on the bed they shared. He’d spent a year thinking. 

He was ready for action.

**Author's Note:**

> I am new to the world of the Magicians, but if you want to follow my weird mix of hyperfixations, I'm [portraitofemmy](http://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] A Year in the Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444320) by [particularlyexistence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/particularlyexistence/pseuds/particularlyexistence)




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